This story was originally published in the zine "You'll Thank Me When It's Wednesday!" from Agent With Style, May 2008. I made a few very slight modifications from the original printing.

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There were times when Sam wanted to kill Dean.

It was just an innocent thought, one of those things that flash through your mind with no seriousness attached to it; no real emotion behind it, no malice, only frustration. In those times, "kill" was just a word. An expression and a way to cope, a way to get through the pain. He could tease, "Dean if this job doesn't kill you, I will." Or, "Dean, I could kill you for making that deal." Because to kill him would be to send his brother to hell, and dammit, he was trying to save him.

Watching him die over and over again wasn't numbing him a bit. After over a hundred times he would have thought he'd feel numb, knowing he would wake up and the day would start over. That Dean would be his usual cocky self; gargling way too loud, brushing his teeth way too long, eyeing far too many women that were way too old for him, eating with the manners of a goat. And not comprehending a damn thing, no matter how many times Sam explained the situation to him. How many ways can you tell your brother that you're going to die?

A car. A dog. A desk. Food poisoning. A gunshot wound. Electrocution. Slipping in the shower. At this point Dean could die of a paper cut that bled him out, because the situation was becoming almost absurd. For a moment, Sam almost stopped caring. Almost. Until he woke up, and the day started again, and he jolted upright again with Dean singing at him again and he realized he'd have to go to the same crappy diner, deal with the same crappy people, and listen to Dean tell him he was crazy again, again, AGAIN! He'd have to convinced Dean again, and watch again as his brother died before his eyes or in his arms. He'd wait to feel numb. For a moment, he thought maybe he could…

Until he woke up and it started again. Always with the again.

God, he hated that word.

He wondered if he could actually do it today and get away with it. Kill Dean. Just so he could gloat. So he could look at that uncomprehending face and say, "Yeah, I did you in. Jerk."

Because there was always a do-over, right? He always came back. But what if this was the one time he didn't? Oh God, he was losing it, he was insane. There was no way he could do this. It was almost night and Dean had survived so far, so maybe that was it, right? Maybe this was finally over, maybe -

Oh… Dean.

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As Sam jolted upright in his bed, he realized he wanted to kill Dean, because this was killing him.

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It was when the thought turned serious that Sam realized he was losing it. But there was a tag, a catch. A reason. What if Sam himself killing Dean broke the curse? Dean had died in tragic and absurd ways. Maybe at the hands of his own brother was the solution, the ultimate way to go. Maybe that was it. That was the key.

He had to kill Dean. For real.

Son of a bitch, what the hell?

Sam's eyes were closed. The radio was screaming the same damn song at him, and he hoped that if he kept his eyes closed maybe, just maybe, the day would pass. Maybe he could stay in bed, and if he didn't see Dean die that would break it. That was it. He'd stay in bed and keep his eyes closed, and all the bad things would go away.

He'd ignore the dead body of his brother in the bed beside his.

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He had to kill him. He had to stop this. He had to do it so this damn day would end…but if it ended, then Dean would be dead. Right? Would it reset one last time and give Dean a chance?

He couldn't kill him. No more than he could piece together Dean's shattered skull from where he slipped near the mop-bucket in the diner.

Maybe he didn't have to kill him. Maybe he had to make it look like he'd killed him.

He had to take Dean to the brink of death, then bring him back.

Sam rubbed at his face and waited for Dean to finish in the bathroom. His body ached. He wasn't sure he'd slept in all the many days, or were they days? Every reset wasn't a full day; he knew he'd woken well over a hundred times by now to the same song but the death happened at different times of day. He had no clue how much real time had passed, or if there was such a thing. His brain was foggy. He couldn't concentrate long enough to feel out a plan, much less carry one through. Even his adrenaline was ebbing. Dean's latest death...Sam just looked at him and thought, You Idiot. Because it was safe. Because time would reset.

He had to stop this. He had to stop waking and wondering what would do his brother in today. He was almost ready to put a wager on it in the diner, "Hey, let's see how long my brother survives! I give him 'til ten, death by paper cut! Any takers?" Oh yeah, he was still waiting for the paper cut. Or maybe he'd shut the trunk on his head and chop it off.

Oh God. Oh, GOD. What was he doing?

A sob escaped him. He stifled it.

Okay. So…if Dean was going to die anyway, and the day would reset, then he should be able to kill Dean and bring him back. Clinically dead for a minute, then resuscitate him. He'd have control, it wouldn't be like holding his battered body. He'd be fine, he'd just shut down for a moment. And reset.

He could do this. Just wrap his large hands around Dean's throat. Take him to the brink of death, then resuscitate him. So he died, but not really.

So many times he wanted to kill him.

Like when he was going to ask Linda Leaven out. And Dean told her, and scared her off because he said Sam had a small…or the time he was pushed into the lake, fully clothed, in front of the freshman class…no, that didn't really count, because by doing so Dean actually saved him from getting his ass kicked, growth spurt or no.

Of course there was the whole Nair incident.

Having his nails painted.

Ping-pong balls in the mailbox.

The fly of his underwear sewn shut.

The time Dean set his alarm for 3am and taped it under his bed. Or the time he put tape over the off switch.

Of course he got Dean back. Put a note on the Impala that read, Sorry, I pinged your car. Call me for damages. And left no number. Dean checked the car for said ping for well over an hour.

None were reasons for murder. Except he wanted Dean around. How was that for irony?

Sam stared at his hands. Flexed his fingers. Thought hard about his brother.

Like the way he raised his eyebrows when surprised, or shocked. The odd way he had of tilting his chin forward in disbelief. The way his eyes would darken when angry, or turn the lightest of green while pounding a guitar riff on the steering wheel without a care in the world. The way he would sort his laundry by smell. The stories he'd tell of their childhood, always putting a twist on it so Dean came out to be the macho hero. And the surprising way he could vanish into a book, when he let himself relax enough to read. Which was seldom. Too seldom. Because Dean was smart as a whip, and had managed to convince himself otherwise.

When they got out of this, he'd have to try and tell Dean differently.

After he killed him.

Almost killed him.

And suddenly Dean was there, brushing his teeth, having showered and dressed with no incident. Every motion sent Sam into panic mode, wondering what the cause of death would be this time. Would he choke on his toothbrush? Would the toothpaste be poisoned? Would a killer Chihuahua lurk outside and go for his throat? Would be slip down the stairs? Would be die quickly? Slowly? Agonizingly? Pinned? Crushed? Free? Bloodied? Anything?

Dean spat into the sink. Sam watched him, unable to tear his eyes away. He stood and joined his brother, his protector.

Why did he seem more alive? Why was it that every time the day started over Dean was more real to him, even if he was repeating the same motions over and over again, motions which finally varied as the day pressed toward its fatal goal. He found himself studying the few grey hairs that were starting to appear, nothing to panic about and almost hidden in the near-blond shade. Studying the faint tan line at the nape of his neck. The knot of the cord that held the amulet. He leaned in, looking closely, and suddenly found himself staring right into vivid green eyes. Oh yeah, today was a green-eyed day. At least it always started that way, before they closed forever. But to see Dean's eyes so close to him, jut right there, so full of concealed thoughts - and apparently pissed off that Sam was leaning so close…

"Dude! Back off, huh? What's with you?" Dean grabbed a towel and mopped angrily at his mouth.

"What?" was the only intelligent thing Sam could think of to say, still caught in the haze of watching his brother.

"You're hovering like you're waiting to get something that I'm not giving you." The towel was flung back to the counter. Dean pushed past him, but was no longer angry. He bend over the mattress to pick up his phone, which had been carelessly deposited there, and looked at Sam over his shoulder. "In fact, you've been staring at me since you got up. Please tell me I at least showered alone."

"Dean…"

"Cause penis-envy, while I can fully understand where you're coming from seeing as you you're the younger brother and all -"

"And not the smaller one," Sam managed to crack back.

"I'm not touching that one."

Damn, he was the most annoying son-of-a… "Dean, I…" He couldn't finish.

"What? You don't have to apologize, Sam. It's genetics."

Sam shook his head. "No. I mean, no, it's not that…" Oh, the bastard. And yet he wanted to smile, he couldn't get angry. Focus, Sam.

Dean smirked and pocketed the phone. "Just yanking your chain, Sammy. Let's go eat."

"No."

"No?"

"We can't. There's something I have to do." He looked at Dean. Studying him. Bracing himself.

Dean's smile faded. "Okay, now that's a look I don't see too often. What's going on?"

Crap. Crapcrapcrap…there was no way. He couldn't do it, he was trembling. "Nothing. Forget about it."

"Sam…"

Sam charged.

"Son of a bitch!"

That would be the last, choked thing his brother would mutter in this lifetime. Sam tried to ignore it.

He pushed Dean back on the bed and straddled him, one arm pressed hard against his throat, one hand pinching his nose, covering his mouth. There was no way to take in air. No way. And Sam fought himself as Dean pressed and pushed against him. He fought every instinct he had to get off his brother. Just to the brink. Just take him to the brink, and he wouldn't have to watch Dean die anymore. Just to the brink, and he could bring him back, having thwarted the game.

Dean shoved at him, bucked, dug his heels into the mattress, tried to roll. Clawed at the hands, and nearly managed to pull him away several times. Sam dealt him a painful blow, stunning him, before suffocating him once more.

Dean pried at him, grunting frantically and trying to speak through the hand clasped hard over his mouth, his expressive eyes wide in confusion and fear. He thought something was wrong with Sam. Even in that moment, he was looking out for Sam.

Sam broke inside.

The tears rolled freely down his face, landing on his killing hands. "I have to," he managed to whisper though choked sobs as Dean's struggles started to ebb. "I have to do this to save you. Trust me, Dean, please. God, I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry!" And he gritted his teeth, and increased the pressure.

Dean's face was red. Green, living eyes were locked with Sam's own. The hurt, the betrayal, but Sam couldn't let go, he couldn't, and it was worse than anything he'd ever felt. "You'll die if I don't, Dean," he said, knowing that Dean had no clue what he was talking about, because as of that day he hadn't explained the circumstances to his brother. All Dean knew was, his little brother was killing him.

And Sam saw the realization cross Dean's face as he struggled again. A single tear formed in the corner of his eye and trailed towards his ear. His struggles weakened.

Sam pressed harder. Don't let go, he told himself, openly sobbing. Don't let go. Do this and save him. Dean's eyes were closing, fluttering open, closing again. His body jerked, desperate for oxygen.

Almost time. He just had to make sure the heart stopped.

After several moments, it did.

Sam cried out in agony, then gasped and sat back, staring at his brother. The brother he'd just killed. He'd killed Dean. He'd actually killed Dean. He…

….leaned forward and pinched Dean's nose, but this time breathed life into his brother. Moved off of him and started chest compressions, wondering why the hell he was on the bed, it was too soft for this. He quickly moved Dean to the floor and resumed. Breathe. Pump. Check for a pulse.

Nothing.

Okay, that was expected. Again. Breathe. Pump. Breathe. Pump. Check.

Nothing.

Breathe, dammit. Pump. Check.

Nothing.

No.

Again.

BREATHE. Pump. Pump again. Pump, and check, and breathe and pump and pump and check and BREATHE GODDAMMIT and PUMP and check, again, and oh God…oh God oh God oh God…

Sam slapped his brother's face. Beat at his chest. Breathed, and pumped, and checked…

He'd killed him.

He'd killed Dean.

breathe

and

pump

and…check…

again…

again…

again…

-end